How do I explain the simple joy of waking up to the sounds of morning, watching sunlight filter into my room?
There was a time -- in fact, huge empty blocks of time -- in which the joys of a simple awakening were lost to me. I couldn't function without drink or drugs for so long that the natural sleep-wake rhythm seemed gone forever. Awakenings were jagged, jarring affairs after a tangled, drugged-out sleep of too few or too many hours. Near the end, it was the need for those drinks or drugs that jolted me awake.
Now I wake up to warmth and light. (Well, we are in a polar vortex, and it's pretty cold, but it's warm in other ways.) I don't dread the morning anymore. I am peaceful and rested. Even on the mornings I haven't slept enough because something pleasantly distracted me past bedtime, I still have peace and calm.
No, it isn't all roses. There are sometimes rough dreams of pills and booze. Knowing I can't take a pill for a crisis or a sleepless night is sometimes overwhelming. I have to walk fast past the wine aisle in the grocery store, and the thought of never having another glass makes me want to cry. But bad moments now can literally be counted in seconds a day instead of hours. So there are a few roses, and sometimes bouquets.
I never have to worry about finding the car parked sideways on the front lawn again (actually, there isn't even a car anymore). My shoes can be found. The cat's been fed. And nothing is on fire.
Tomorrow morning should be good. At least I will know what didn't happen, and that is a very good thing.
